What the Bloody, Sodding, Buggering Hell?
by Morosetintedglasses
Summary: Elizabeth's end of DMC monologue, which I imagine would have consisted of a very expansive WTF? M for course language and sociallyunredeemable humor. Quote: This strange voodoo woman may have done a dance with a dead chicken and bongos, or something.


**Elizabeth**:I am quite eager to set off with Captain Barbossa to the "edges of the Earth" to find Captain Jack Sparrow, but in the excitement of this new enterprise I feel as if you, my beloved and most cherished shipmates, in my opinion, have neglected to give voice to one important thing:**_What the bloody, sodding, buggering HELL!_**

Having said that, I would like to delineate my concerns regarding said expedition, in particularly the ones regarding our, erm, Captain.

One, while I do not wish to cast into doubt his moral uprightness and incontrovertible integrity I would like to remind you that there was the small, almost negligible instance where HE HANDED ME OVER TO BE VICIOUSLY GANGRAPED BY HIS CREW OF SADISTIC, DECOMPOSED AND MOST LIKELY DISEASED PIRATES! They could have tortured, maimed, murdered, or worst—impregnated me! They could have made sport by penetrating all of my orifices with foreign objects including, but not limited to: cargo hooks, rum bottles, belaying pins, et cetera. And they certainly had designs on _discharging_ more than masculine secretions inside of my apertures. I wish that the implication would suffice, but since subtlety is lost on you people, these deranged perverts were not above firing flintlock pistols into my pudendum! Then again, I feel that I would have preferred the flintlocks, as powder and shot are at least known quantities, whereas the toxicity of a Pirate's prostatic fluids makes faeces and urine seem as communion wafers and holy water.

In addition, when they inevitably grew bored with the standard deeds associated with rape and defilement this being of legitimate concern, as they were, as you may recall, bound to suffer for lack of satisfaction, that being said, I will remind you that this does not necessarily _prevent_ them from seeking out such satisfaction, and in fact it encourages them to devise new and more nefarious means of attaining it—in my case, this means devising new and more nefarious ways of RAPING ME! then they would have turned their maniacal imaginations to more novel avenues for gratification. Certainly, the worst rapist is a creative rapist. When they were done violating my vaginal orifice, anal orifice and oral orifice, they would have made new orifices and violated me there until I quite resembled a wantonly debauched pasta strainer and certainly by this point I would be long dead, and if not I would have certainly desired to be, and if so, they would be undeterred so long as my squishy bits hadn't _completely_ rotted off and when they had, they would have probably used my skull as a urinal. Certainly, my skull would not be a very efficient urinal. The average frontal lobe could hold twenty ounces, maximum. Though, being above average, mine could certainly hold at least twenty-four, perhaps even twenty-five. Since the average person expels twelve fluid ounces of urine per excretion, and given the volume of rum that pirates consume, I would give my skull…four minutes before pirate pee begins leaking out of my supra-orbital fissures.

The rest of me? God knows. I fancy that my smaller bones, fingers and toes and the like, would make fascinating jewelry. The larger ones, femurs, humeri, well, they would make lightweight clubs, or if you attach my scapula, crude croquet mallets. Though I imagine croquet would be difficult at sea, what with the pitching and rolling of the swells. Well…ah, I've got it! Cricket! My femur could be a bat, and the tibiae, fibulae and radii could be fashioned into wickets. How delightful! I so love cricket!...but, erm, not _that_ much. And honestly, half of these men are missing limbs and the rest are inebriated, and I would be interested to see which team would hobble faster—the Drunks or the Stumps.

But I digress…

Two, wasn't he dead? Honestly, last I saw Captain Barbossa he was dying in a dramatic, Shakespearean, "—so cold!" expiration! He had been blasted through with shot and had a smoking cavity in his chest! Though I wonder, he and Jack had stabbed, slashed and otherwise gored each other with cutlasses only moments before, so why were they not _both_ covered in mortal wounds? That has always bothered me. I guess that wounds acquired whilst undead have a sixty-second critical period wherein they will manifest themselves in the event of the lifting of one's Aztec curse of the heathen gods. But yes, he was dead! Dead, dead, dead! Certainly, this strange voodoo woman may have done a dance with a dead chicken and bongos, or something of the sort and resurrected him, but are you people so naïve and dense as to _trust_ someone who keeps jars of dead, decomposing and often unidentifiable things in her, er, hut, and goes about resurrecting evil, deceased pirate captains with pathological fixations of apples? And how did she know where he was in the first place? If you ask me, they're in cahoots with one another to take us out onto the high seas and predict the future with our entrails. Well, you know what, _this _gallbladder does not portend political upheaval! In fact, the only rebellion within it lies against her, yonder madman and you ridiculous bunch of brigands!

Actually, go ahead and when they eviscerate you, think of me.

Three, what is it with Captain Barbossa and apples? I do not understand it, but I can tell you that I don't like it—it's rather creepy. I haven't been able to eat apples since then and I have him to thank for the psychological aversion—honestly, did he first achieve orgasm in an orchard? Can he _only_ achieve orgasm in an orchard? Well, in that case I will simply avoid orchards…unless of course gagging me with an apple like a pig on a luau would suffice for him…Seriously, it just isn't normal. But that is all beside the point.

Four, I don't even want to find Jack at the present moment. I would be content to wait six months, a year, or at least until my fiancé starts speaking to me again. He doesn't know that I know that he knows. Don't look at me like that! You know perfectly well that I know that you…bugger it. I kissed Jack! I kissed him despite his sickening stench of halitosis, questionable oral hygiene and the very real possibility of contracting herpes, and shackled him to the ship and now he's being slowly dissolved by gastric juices in the primitive digestive tract of a giant mollusk! But it was only to save all of you, and now you would compromise that by jumping on a ship with Apples and Mistress Necromancer here to find him. In that case we should have all just remained of the _Pearl_ and shouted, "Please Mr. Kraken, we would be ever so delighted if you would ingest us all! That's right! We're so thick that we're going hazard onto a voyage with a similar destination, anyway!"

Fine! That's just fine!

Five, I just want my wedding night. Can't I _please_ have my wedding night? I am so desperate for some sort of sexual release that I found myself sodden as a strumpet over bloody Jack Sparrow. _Jack Sparrow! _I almost wish that those scoundrels _had_ raped me. At least then I would have a suitable psychological aversion to sexual intercourse…rather than apples. I rather liked apples before this whole ordeal. Apple sauce, apple crisps, apple tarts…you bastard!

Why is a scalawag like you alive, and perfectly respectable, i _sane_ /i individuals are dead?

**Bambi's Mom:** Disney has my stuffed head hanging over some poacher's hearth, and this asshole's magically and inexplicably resurrected? WTF?

A/N: Reviews. They validate my existence.


End file.
